He knew he missed her.
Dieter was contracted to give his life for hers, should the need arise.
The whole point of personal protection was to prevent the need for such a sacrifice from arising, and everybody stayed alive.
He listened through the walls and watched the windows.
Plus, Dieter was married to another woman, the mother of his child, and he had no right to look at Flicka von Hannover on her wedding day.
Dieter had met Flicka when she had been ten years old and he was twenty-one. Flicka’s older brother Wulfram had raised her since she was six because their father was an ass and had shipped her off to boarding school the very day after her mother had died of breast cancer. She had been just a gangly puppy-child to Dieter until one particular night a decade later, when she had been twenty years old, and she had insisted that Dieter open his eyes and look at her.
His world had turned on its axis. The very stars changed for him when he looked into her dark green eyes and saw her as if for the first time.
But that was three years and a lifetime ago.
Now, his only job was to watch for threats to her safety.
Therefore, Dieter kept his gaze away from the bride, scanning the windows and listening to the hallway, while Flicka von Hannover wept into her hands on the day she was to marry another man.
Not just any other man.
Her fiancé was the Prince Pierre Grimaldi, the crown prince of Monaco, the man who would inherit the throne of the principality when his uncle died or passed it over to him. Not that the change was anticipated to happen anytime soon. The current prince, Prince Rainer IV, was robustly healthy and planned a long reign, as he sharply told anyone who dared ask.
Prince Pierre Grimaldi would inherit one of the world’s great fortunes and have actual royal power. He could give Flicka absolutely anything she wanted: islands, jewels, and protection from anything that might harm her. His Secret Service could encircle her far better than a poor Swiss mercenary could ever hope to. The Prince’s Palace of Monaco was a fortress that had repelled medieval invaders, and it was located in one of the safest countries in the world.
His Serene Highness Pierre Grimaldi was a member of an important family and had wealth, power, prestige, and fame. He was exactly the type of man whom Flicka, Princess of Hannover and Cumberland, should marry.
Dieter’s heart cramped as Flicka sobbed, her shoulders heaving.
Her bridesmaids pressed tissues to her cheeks, trying to save her bridal makeup. Her breath shuddered in her body, rustling the silk of her white wedding gown.
Sunlight sparkled on the diamond tiara in her golden hair.
Dieter Schwartz stood with his back to the wall, ramrod-straight and stoic, and scanned for danger.
He didn’t move a muscle, not a twitch, not a lift of a hand, not a blink.
That right didn’t belong to him.
His body ached to stride across the room, hold Flicka in his arms, and tell her that everything would be all right, that he would make everything right for her on her wedding day.
Because Dieter wanted happiness for her. He wanted Flicka’s marriage to be a real one, a happy one, not a union begun out of obligation that spiraled into argument and resentment.
Like his marriage had.
But he couldn’t walk across the room and tell her that.
She wouldn’t want to hear it.
Especially from Dieter.
The door flipped open, and everyone looked.
Everyone looked except Dieter, who glanced over, determined that the man entering was not a threat, and resumed scanning the room and windows for what else might happen during the distraction. He settled back on his heels, ready.
Wulfram von Hannover, Flicka’s older brother and Dieter’s employer, strode across the dressing room to Flicka. He shooed away the fluttering bridesmaids with one hand as he approached and said, “He will sit in the front pew to show his support for the wedding. He will say nothing during the ceremony. I will walk with you down the aisle and give you away.”
The problem had been Flicka’s father, as usual. Dieter had heard tales from Wulf for years before he had first met the man, so he had been prepared for the malignant narcissism that had emanated from the old man’s every wrinkled pore. Nevertheless, the old man’s cold inhumanity had riled a dark anger in Dieter, who afterward believed every word Wulf had told him about his barren childhood. That man’s evil was the reason that Wulf had raised Flicka since she had been six and he had been fifteen, and it had reared its ugly head yet again.
